


tell me, atlas. what is heavier:

by thebetterbina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Family, Family Feels, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Rebirth, and he decides to gently push tom on a better path, harry potter is loving and forgiving, harry potter is reborn as the unnamed son of dorea and charlus, okay i lied some things hurt, only a little tho then it gets better, starts with description of childbirth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: His second life begins with two doting parents, just like the first. This time, they won’t die protecting their baby—this time, he’ll get to live a childhood the first never afforded him.In this life, there’s no prophecy hovering over him, no Dark Lord he has to defeat. He’s just a boy with two parents who love him, with a future unwritten and one he’ll be able to shape with his own hands.He doesn’t have to become Atlas, the same voice as before whispers.The heavens aren’t on his shoulders to bear anymore.When he gets older, he’ll wonder if that was fate’s way of apologizing.Harry James Potter dies and comes back as Cepheus Charlus Potter, only son to Dorea Ursula Black and Charlus Hardwin Potter.He dies and comes back and makes the decision to set the wizarding world on a safer, better path—he does that by befriending a one, Tom Marvolo Riddle.(Along the way, they love.)





	1. the world or its people’s hearts?

**Author's Note:**

> betad, big thanks to fey and neuro ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> cepheus is a constellation in the northern sky, named after cepheus, a king of aethiopia in greek mythology.

Charlus winces for what must be the umpteenth time that evening, yelping as he feels the fierce talons of his beloved wife gripping his undoubtedly already broken hand. 

Dorea takes the worst of these moments, but is still a sight to behold; her cheeks flushed red, face set in a tight grimace only permeated by the occasional groan. Sweat beads and trickles down her face, matted black hair wild against her scalp. There’s a maid nearby to dab the sweat off her. She’s so different like this, from the poised, stern lady most of wizarding society knew her as, but Charlus loves her all the same.

"I see the baby mistress!"

Dorea grouses something, all before she's screaming bloody murder and yelling at Charlus that they're never having another child—he readily agrees; one child had taken a toll on Dorea’s health, but she'd been determined to carry the pregnancy through despite the warnings from the healers. She wanted a baby, and there’s only so much he can deny her.

He has his own face angled away from where the nursemaid and midwife are; they're shouting their encouragements and it's with bated breath that he awaits the sound of  _ something _ slipping free—all before he hears the first loud, wet cry of the baby.  _ Their  _ baby.

"It's a boy, mistress! A healthy baby boy!" The midwife booms rather loudly. A pudgy woman, she’d been delivering the Black family children for two generations now.

Dorea smiles; she'd long guessed they'd have a son. He doesn't know how she managed to get it right but she'd chastised him, telling it was simply intuition. Her arms are shaky from strain as she holds them out but her voice is firm as she speaks.

"Give him here."

The maid obeys, and the baby—wiped off and swaddled in charmed warming blankets, having settled to a coo now from his early yowlings—Charlus takes a peek at over the wrap of white. He’s treated to the face of his newborn, eyes closed but peaceful just like his mother. They make for a magnificent sight, ethereal as Muggle paintings depicting Mary with baby Jesus. Perhaps it’s an unorthodox comparison, one Dorea might swat him for, but there’s no better way he’d ever capture the moment.

Dorea looks up at him now, face still flushed but this time lips pulled into the biggest smile he's ever seen on her face. They'd decided on his name long before, and his own voice is a low baritone, a soft murmur to their baby boy who twitches at the sound of their voices.

"Welcome to the family, Cepheus Charlus Potter."

* * *

Harry James Potter dies surrounded by loved ones.

He’d lived to a grand old age of one hundred and twenty two. Many had wished for longer but years of having to shoulder the world on your back did that to even the best of them. His wife, Ginny, with a somber smile on her face, traces idle fingertips across his battle-worn and scarred palms as she whispers something—he doesn’t hear, his consciousness fades in and out these last few moments.

He knows his children are nearby; their barely held back sobs wrenching something in his heart. Ron and Hermoine—he knew—had visited but wanted to give the Potter family the peace they needed on his deathbed; it’s a quiet that Harry does appreciate, a quiet he uses to reflect on the life he’d lived.

The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. Auror. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather.

A whole life, a good life he supposed; he’d set wizarding Britain back on its feet after the war and managed to settle down to becoming an Auror after it all—he was, in his life: loved and respected, both, and feared, yes, but above all allowed to live, finally. He lived as a pillar, a figurehead that people looked up to and admired. He had three beautiful and successful children, and Teddy too because Teddy was everything including his own, and they all had their own families now; all little (well, they seemed little to him) grandchildren Harry had been lucky enough to meet just before his body started failing him.

His last breath isn’t painful. He’s died before and the second time he welcomes with an embrace like an old friend.

Ginny presses a kiss on his forehead, soft and fond just like her love for him; he feels it just as he feels himself dip under the darkness, and he smiles.

Harry James Potter dies surrounded by loved ones.

* * *

Halfway to the train, he gets asked by someone—he’s not sure who, just a disembodied voice, lilting and echoing—asking him if he regrets anything.

Shamefully, he does. 

(He regrets the lives he knew and couldn’t save. Savior complex ... perhaps those words had some truth in them after all. He’d also died with a lot of secrets. If he could live another life he’d like one he’d never have to hide, but that’s a more private, selfish little wish.)

He gets asked if he’d do it all again.

Maybe, he considers his answer, but—and with a laugh he adds—he’d like better circumstances.

He’s yanked forcefully backward by a hand he doesn’t see, away from the platform.

The train leaves (again) without him.

* * *

His second life begins with two doting parents, just like the first. This time, they won’t die protecting their baby—this time, he’ll get to live a childhood the first never afforded him. 

In this life, there’s no prophecy hovering over him, no Dark Lord he has to defeat. He’s just a boy with two parents who love him, with a future unwritten and one he’ll be able to shape with his own hands.

He doesn’t have to become Atlas, the same voice as before whispers. 

The heavens aren’t on his shoulders to bear anymore.

When he gets older, he’ll wonder if that was fate’s way of apologizing.

* * *

Cepheus Charlus Potter takes his first breath with an angry bawl.

It’s painful, agonizingly so, sensations entirely new with a body not exactly his own. That’s all soothed by the blankets and arms that hold him protectively, cocooning him, and a voice that ushers him—warm and loving—into the world.

"Welcome to the family, Cepheus Charlus Potter."


	2. your mother's love or her expectations?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cepheus brings home a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betad, big thanks to red and bella ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> i'm looking for a permanent beta, so if you're up for it just join my discord and give me a holler
> 
> i started the last chapter with charlus, it's only right i begin this one with dorea

Cepheus is a quiet child.

Not that Dorea has any complaints about that; her five year old is an absolute angel in her eyes—or maybe that’s just her biased, motherly, opinion. Charlus thinks otherwise, fussing about how much rowdier he and Fleamont were and wondering where Cepheus got his sweet, demure attitude from. Certainly not the Blacks. Dorea remembers Pollux and Cassiopeia, hellions if the things their parents had to say were anything to go by. She too admittedly fell towards the mischievous side so it’s an absolute wonder Ceph is the way he is. 

The nanny shares somewhat the same opinion, but unlike Charlus she isn’t bothered—Evanora actually celebrates how well-behaved her darling Ceph was as a baby and how gentle he grew to be, only ever fussing if uncomfortable. She placates her master and mistress with the fact she’d met plenty of quiet children before, and while Ceph doesn’t fall under the category of shy (he’s anything but) her little boy certainly doesn’t waste his breath. If anything, they should be happy their son didn’t spend half the day screaming his tiny little lungs hoarse.

His first accidentally magic happens when he's five.

It wasn’t a dangerous situation by any means; Ceph had simply been standing a little too close to Charlus when her bumbling fool of a husband accidentally knocks the teapot over. The nanny has a scream midway past her lips watching as the ceramic tips and the gush of piping hot water; but to everyone’s surprise, the white porcelain of the pot and spilled tea hover just inches away from Ceph’s curious peeking green eyes. In the next moment they’d watch as the pot and tea simply draw back from their falling position, like a chastised lady demurely putting itself back onto the table next to Charlus; all as if had never fallen.

To say they were ecstatic is a severe understatement. Dorea insists upon hosting a party to celebrate. The Potters welcome the newest addition to the family with characteristic jubilant glee—Fleamont a little more zealous than normal in greeting his only nephew and Euphemia quietly telling Dorea how certain she was Ceph would grow up handsome. Henry and Nymeria are much the same, fawning over their grandchild, there’s no doubt in her mind he’ll grow up spoiled.

The Blacks are comparatively different—while the Potters are warm, welcoming and entirely loving despite all faults (that was, Dorea supposes, why she’d fallen so quickly in love with Charlus)—the Blacks are stricter, firmer, less forgiving with mistakes and they hold tradition above everything. For awhile she’s worried, her Ceph hadn’t exactly been brought up with the same environment in mind. She’d been lax in that aspect and he might not be used to the practices and tension that always followed the Black family name.

When she walks in on her father Cygnus, a good Pureblood father but terrifying man by all accounts, bursting with rowdy laughter and her little Ceph seated on his lap—she takes everything back, she’s more afraid for them than she is her baby.

Ceph, the youngest by birth among all the cousins and certainly the cutest, has them quickly wrapped around his fingers.

Lucretia and Walburga fawn over Ceph the worst; he’s more treated as a doll by his female cousins than anything else—their fascination with his emerald eyes is something the entire family shares. It’s unlike the darker eye shades the Blacks are known for so it’s something of a marvel to see the speckled-jewels gaze. Henry had told her Ceph probably inherited it from his own father, Ceph’s great-grandfather, Theobald Morrigan Potter, whose eyes were said to be such a vibrant green it was the key factor in winning the hand of Ophelia Allegra Malfoy.

Orion, Alphard, and Cygnus treat their little cousin as all boys tend to; a little roughhousing and play that Ceph takes with just as much patience as he does with the girls. Noticeably, the family softens up around Cepheus—it’s fascinating to watch how the presence of her boy tottering up to his grandfather and grandmother with the sweetest smile melts even the harshest of the Blacks. She suspects all it would take would be for Ceph to ask—and Uncle Sirius would happily consider Cepheus an heir to the Black family.

(But that notion is tossed out the window. Ceph is already in line for Potter family now with Fleamont and Euphemia rather resigningly telling her they’d given up having children.)

All in all, Dorea doesn’t think too much about how her child behaves. Sure he’s a little quiet, more watchful and patient than most children, certainly he knows more than he should at his age—but she puts it all off on the simple brilliance of her little crow.

* * *

Harry being reborn as Cepheus is certainly an experience.

Definitely not one he’d want to repeat, but an experience nonetheless. Thankfully, whatever being that had granted him this other life was merciful. His consciousness and memory trickle like water into his being and he doesn’t start life immediately aware of his surroundings. That, he’s certainly thankful for. The blindness in early childbirth and lethargy that followed being a toddler wasn’t anything he really wanted to experience. No, rather his memories of his other life and being come to him gradually; flashes and periods of awareness of who he was and who he is. By the time Harry turns five, he’s comfortable with the idea of having been born as Cepheus with the memories of his other life simply being an additional bonus.

His magical core, as he sourly admits for the best, has been reset—it’s certainly there, enough to know he wasn’t born a Squib, but entirely different  from the bottomless well he'd had in his previous life . Thankfully his memories include the sensation of what his magic felt like, and rather than wait until he was a little older or until some horrible accident befell him.

Dorea and Charlus are delighted, and in turn, so is he.

To Harry, Lily Evans and James Potter would always be his parents—the two who had risked their lives to save his, sacrificing themselves and passing on the baton of life to their infant child, desperate to have him live when they could not. To them he’ll always be thankful, always have a special portion in his heart for their memories and the love he’ll always have to the two.

To Cepheus, Dorea Black and Charlus Potter are the two doting parents he never had. Loving in every way and with two families ready to swaddle him in love. The Potters are special to him—ever since seeing the ghost of their faces in the Mirror of Erised, he puts personalities to the names and faces his past life had only seen tapestries of. The Blacks are special to him too. He sees the ghost of Sirius in Orion’s face and has a special love for Alphard who he knew had been more than happy to fund his wayward nephew’s escapes. Walburga is entirely different to the screaming portrait he knew her as and the Blacks accept him as one of their own, showing their love for him in their own special unique ways that Pureblood etiquette allows.

When he falls sick at age six, the two families riot.

He knows, from his memories of reading the diaries of Euphemia, that Dorea and Charlus had lost their six-year-old child to Dragon Pox—and a grief unlike any other had shrouded the two, unable to move on and heal and ended in both of their early death because of it. Thankfully Cepheus at least expects it to happen ( though he tried, without success, to avoid it ) as he struggles through wheezing gasps each breath suddenly becomes harder to take. His own magic is definitely more mature  than that of the first Cepheus and makes him a fighter in the eyes of the healers who see him. 

His cousins are barred from visiting, understandably. It’s contagious, dangerous, and fatal to magical folk that Dorea ends up crying by his beside nightly shaken by her own fears for his death. Charlus is much the same but less vocal; his anxiety he holds with a tight rein as he carefully places hands over his wife,  quietly reminding her to eat as he watches over their son. It hurts Ceph more than he realizes, the unintentional pain he causes the two; all the more reason to fight against the disease and get better. 

(Somewhere along the line, Cepheus decides one day  he'll find a cure for the disease , refusing the idea of another Wizard or Witch falling prey to death in this manner.)

Eventually he recovers remarkably well despite the fragile situation he’d been in, Dorea’s tears of relief have him sobbing in his own. Suddenly acutely aware while this might just be another life, he still had parents and a family who’d mourn his departure. There’s no redoing of this life, and steadily but surely, he builds a resolve around that same emotion of love that had fueled his first.

If Dorea and Charlus become a tad more protective afterwards, most say nothing against it; it was one thing to almost lose their son, and the heartbreak would never mend correctly after. No parent should have to bury their child, or even experience the touch of loss.

Coincidentally, age six is also the time he abruptly realizes he’s in the era of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The Dark Lord. Voldemort.

If memory serves right, they’d been born in the same year. They would be the same age. How that pressing little fact has escaped him is really beyond Cepheus. He puts it off to all the childhood coddling, and sadly remembers the Tom of this age would already be embittered by his experience of the orphanage.

Unless.

He takes the bold risk of asking his parents if he could explore Muggle London; it’s much to Dorea’s horror but Charlus is, though apprehensive, a little more encouraging of the tiny exploration. He’d been holed up for weeks down with the Dragon Pox, and it’s understandable to the Healer he’d want to go out and stretch—so Cepheus makes the promise to have his dutiful nanny Evanora with him, and warding as well as protective charms in abundance all placed over his person. Surprisingly Dorea sets aside some Muggle money for him to use for snacks just in case, and he has a set of Muggle clothes that would make him look decently like the child of a well-off family. 

They set off with the Floo and Evanora doesn’t bat an eye when he makes the odd request of visiting an orphanage of all things.

“Wool’s Orphanage? Are you sure Young Master?”

“I am Eva, please promise not to tell mum and dad? I just want to see it, that’s all.”

His nanny gives a considering look, and he puts on his best puppy eyes. She relents with a sigh.

“I can never say no to you. Come along.”

Evanora is a Squib, that much Ceph knows—unlike most Pureblood families, the Potters didn’t strike Squibs off their tapestries or shun members of the family born without magic, instead they accepted them, loved them just the same, and even employ Squibs who find it hard to integrate into Muggle society when cast out of their own. Evanora is one of them, having come from a branch of some Pureblood family but not accepted for the fact she never showed a lick of magical abilities. Eva isn’t particularly bitter about it, though she is sad, certainly, at a future she knows she’ll never have, but she’s a woman with a big heart and she’d loved Cepheus as her own from the moment he was born. Always gentle, coaxing, and thrown into just as much of a panic and fit as Dorea had when he’d fallen sick and hadn’t looked close to recovering.

The orphanage is drearier in person than what he remembers in the Pensieve, the bleak grey walls and chipping paint a depressing sight. The children are in their multitudes off doing their own thing littered along the lawn, certainly not bothered by the state of the building if that was all they’d known all their lives. It’s certainly different from the Black family manor Dorea had been gifted and consequently had become a home for their family. Where the manor was old with ancient magic giving a feel of the regal walls that still stood strong and proud through the generations, the orphanage was  dilapidated , like a beggar living off a few scraps of food and nearing the end of days, waiting the moment everything would crumble. Eva stood beside him, holding his hand tutting at the sight.

“I don’t understand what’s there to see. I know a sweet shop you might just like—wouldn’t you prefer that?”

“I just want to look, that’s all, I promise.”

Another withering sigh later she lets go of his hand, the tracking charm on him still strong and tied to her own (though miniscule) magic. “Not too long you hear? And not too far either. Don’t touch the Muggle children.” She adds the last words with a sniff. Though close to being a Muggle herself Eva was still proud of her heritage and showed it in her distaste of Muggles and their lack of respect for anything they didn’t understand.

Ceph nods his head obediently, walking off a distance toward the shrubberies and where he suspects he’ll find the person he’s looking for. It’s really a hit or miss at this point. He certainly hoped he’d picked the day to find the other boy off doing his own mischief. He struggles a little to part the green; the foliage is a little thicker around the area, and the other children noticeably avoid going near it.

Not too far in and he hears the familiar sibilance of Parseltongue rolling.

_ “The other children are silly, I’m glad I have you as a friend.” _

__   
_   
_ __ “And I, you—ah, there comes another.”

There’s a sudden silence and then rustling of the leaves as they part. Cepheus comes face to face with a young Tom, face pinched in anger but melting away to confusion—clearly not recognizing Ceph as any child from the orphanage.

“Who are you?” 

“Cepheus. And you?”

“That’s a ridiculous name.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

Tom is quiet at this point, instead turning a critical set of eyes over him; evaluating him, Cepheus suspects. From the fine, pressed shirt and pants, little silk ribbon over his shirt collar with an emerald to match his eyes, sock garters and shined shoes—all a direct opposite to Tom, who dresses in clothes clearly a size too large for his smaller body. The snake in his palm is quiet.

“You’re not from the orphanage.”

“Obviously.”

Tom seems to twitch at the response, seemingly not used to backtalk from another child. A beat later the boy eventually gives up.

“Tom.”

“Nice to meet you Tom. Were you talking with the snake?”

Tom smirks, hand thrusting out the little garden snake to Ceph who barely flinches at the movement; Tom seems a little irked by the fact but continues.

“I was talking to it. I can command her to bite you.”

_ “Hello, it’s nice meeting you—you’re very pretty.” _

To Tom's obvious bafflement , the little snake practically preens under the attention, quick to flick a curious tongue over the extended finger, scenting the newcomer eagerly.

  
_ “Oh! This little hatchling is a speaker too! How rare, and so polite too!” _

_ “You—you speak to snakes too?” _

Ceph replies with an absent nod.

Cepheus isn’t sure how rebirth is supposed to work, but supposes his soul hadn’t been replaced due to the fact the Parseltongue ability had fallen into his new life. And it had been a shock for Dorea and Charlus but not unwelcome. The Potters,  eager academics rather than judgmental of Dark abilities, had greeted Ceph’s Parseltongue revelation with curiosity—enough it had Charlus tracing back the family tapestry far enough until he could pinpoint the moment a family of theirs had married a Slytherin  descendant . The Blacks are equally jovial though they support Ceph most for the fact Parseltongue was considered a Dark ability. And Cepheus had spent a whole summer sitting down watching his cousin Orion catch snakes and put them before Cepheus and adding said snake to the growing collection of little pets Dorea had been more than happy to allow.

_ “I’ve never met anyone who could speak to snakes too.” _

_ “It’s a special ability.” _

_ “I’m special?” _

_ “So am I.” _

Tom seems to frown at that before nodding, if reluctantly.  _ “We’re special then.” _

Cepheus wonders when it would be a good time to tell Tom of his even more special heritage, but he doesn’t get another word out before the little charm stuck to his pocket begins buzzing—Evanora is calling him back.

“I have to go.”

“Wait—will—” Tom seems to struggle to find the next words, and Cepheus catches what looks like hope in those dark brown eyes. “Will you come back?”

He smiles, turning a dazzling grin onto Tom. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Nicely—” He’s briefly puzzled, before understanding dawns and he says the word as if it’s poison on his tongue. “—will you please come back?”

“Of course, Tom.”

“Riddle. That’s my last name.”

“Potter. That’s mine. Nice to meet you Tom Riddle.”

He holds out a hand, and Tom, though cautious, meets it with his own firm palm.

The tangled strings of fate unravel at the pull.

* * *

But he was Harry James Potter first and foremost, and Harry never did things by halves.

* * *

“Mum, dad—this is Tom, we’re taking care of him now.”


	3. the life you've lived or the life you're about to live?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood, at a glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betad, big thanks to bella ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> thank you so much for all the lovely comments and support this fic is receiving, im really looking forward to continuing this! (｡￫∀￩｡)

His parents reactions to his declaration are photograph worthy.

Dorea is shocked, staring at the young six-year-old Tom similar to the first time Cepheus had revealed he was a Parseltongue—a mixture of bewilderment with healthy doses of disbelief. Charlus is more humoured, his former nervousness at his son’s actions having mellowed to acceptance and he takes the news with a stride. Evanora is the only one with a vague look of horror on her face, it had taken  Cepheus already quite awhile to get her to agree Flooing them together with Tom to the manor on the premise of ' _ a playdate with the interesting Muggle child and nothing more _ '. 

“Is there—” Dorea begins, slow. Her gaze lingers over Tom and his clearly Muggle clothes. “—do you … have a reason, my little crow?”

His smile is easy as he says, “Tom’s a Parseltongue, mama.”

It’s probably a combination of the news and endearment that has Dorea look more considering now, they both knew for a fact Cepheus had never been a liar and despite his age his words always did have some  rationality to them, even Charlus begins to take the situation with a bit more weight as he says, “He’s from a Muggle orphanage isn’t he?” 

He admires his parents’ ability to talk as if Tom weren’t in the room, he feels vaguely sorry for the boy and squeezes his hand laced with his in a mild apology.

“He is.”

“What’s your name.” Less of a question than it is a demand, Dorea’s attitude switches with a flick of a button and the fearsome Black of her bloodline rears from where she’s seated as the lady of the house. To her, Tom is an intruder— Cepheus has his cousins and only few Pureblood children for friends, and understandably she’s weary towards strangers.

Cepheus has to nudge Tom to give a response, the boy clearly agitated being in the presence of three strangers in an even stranger home.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

They turn to each other at this. Charlus, with his more vast knowledge of family trees, speaks up. “Tom and Riddle is certainly Muggle—Marvolo not. Curious indeed.”

“So can he stay?” His own tone is a little more insistent, he doesn’t have the energy to stand and entertain his parents as they consider whether to let Tom in or Obliviate him and put him back at the orphanage. But he doubts that’s what they’d do, Marvolo is a magical name enough; and being a Parseltongue cements the fact he’s magical. To them, a Halfblood at least.

“We suppose.” A confirmation from his mother is all he needs, he tugs Tom along leaving the three adults to talk. They’ll make arrangements he knows for sure, to simply be a magical child was one thing—to be a  _ Parseltongue _ magical child meant another thing entirely.

They cross the dining hall with little echoing steps,  Cepheus finally releasing his hold on Tom to watch the wonder glimmer in dark pools of brown as they pass the moving paintings and speaking portraits. Tom’s steps are slower as he takes the time to absorb his surroundings, and for awhile the quiet stretches between the two of them until he has something to ask.

“Why do they keep calling me a ‘Muggle’?”

“It’s what we call the non-magical people.”

Tom’s face takes on a vague look of disgust. “But I am magical.”

“Well yes, but you were raised as a Muggle. And you don’t know who your parents are either, so you could be a Muggleborn. But I doubt so.”

“Why?”

“You can speak Parseltongue.”

“Don’t all of you speak to snakes?”

“No. You have to come from a very … special bloodline.”

* * *

It’s much to Cepheus’s surprise, but his parents suggest the Gringotts blood inheritance test almost the same night as they eat dinner. They plan a trip the next day to get everything sorted, and later in the night  Cepheus has to softly explain what Gringotts is and where Diagon Alley is located. He finds himself talking much more than normal, but it’s hard not to when his listener is Tom Riddle—who’s  more curious than the proverbial cat  and soaks up knowledge like a sponge. He’s always with a question, always wondering, not afraid to ask since his companion was more than ready to provide an adequate response.

They only fall asleep fairly late into the night, and Evanora has the heartwarming treat of seeing  Cepheus and Tom curled around each other comfortably enough that it would be a surprise for anyone else to learn Tom was only a very recently acquired friend.

Tom is excited. He’s thrumming energy, vibrating with an overly eager smile on his face  Cepheus knows he’ll learn to tame it back when sorted into Slytherin. He’s  borrowed some of  Cepheus’s clothes, while Diagon was still accepting of normal Muggle clothes, they didn’t want to explain why they were wandering around with some Muggle child. Tom finds the robes somewhat strange but doesn’t resist them, taking the time to run hands over the smooth material and marvelling at the soft fabric. 

(They take the Floo to Diagon, and Tom would quietly tell Cepheus how much he hated the cursed powder,  Cepheus would laugh and tell him Wizards have more than one way to travel but they’re equally as unpleasant.)

Gringotts Bank is still the same towering structure from Cepheus’ memories, ominous but still entirely grand with its high quirky columns and looming doorway. Tom’s eyes follow the many Goblins working, and Cepheus has to tell him more than once to stop staring before he offends them. Rows and rows they work neatly, each with their own scale and focus on their task. Their company of four, headed by Charlus stops by a familiar face, his wrinkled lines set in a scowl over a book with a quill in hand. 

“We wish to do an inheritance test.”

Black beady eyes flicker up, Gnagnurt’s attention draws over the Potter family and down to Tom next to Cepheus.

“A simple blood inheritance will cost twelve Galleons.”

“Take it from my vault.”

A curt nod later and they watch Gnagnurt motion over another Goblin, speaking in Gobbledegook before the new Goblin speaks. “My name is Ragdas, if the Wizard wishing to do the blood inheritance would follow me please.”

Giving a rather polite arm he leads the way, Tom following but Cepheus still in grasp, the clear nervousness is noted by Ragdas but he doesn’t say anything as the two children follow after him. They’re led past the main entrance to a quieter back room and told to wait, a beat later and Ragdas returns with a simple parchment and knife. 

“Slice your thumb and allow a few drops onto the parchment. The parchment will show two generations of blood related family, as well as the vaults you’re entitled to.”

With a glance over to  Cepheus , Tom shakily does as he’s told. Not wincing as the knife cuts into skin, the boys watch as three ruby red drops fall onto the paper before being absorbed. It’s not  Cepheus’s first time seeing an inheritance test, but he still marvels at the magic of it all as the paper practically begins to blossom with ink. 

A family tree, beginning with ‘ _ Tom Marvolo Riddle _ ’ starts at the bottom and they watch as the tree grows from his name upwards. Winding spirals of the branches revealing ‘ _ Merope Salome Gaunt _ ’ in a pale grey and ‘ _ Thomas Alfred Riddl _ e’ still in deep black as his parents, extending further to show relatives and their living status—‘ _ Morfin Orick Gaunt _ ’ revealed as a maternal living uncle and ‘ _ Marvolo Oberon Gaunt _ ’ along with ' _ Circe Theodora Yaxley _ ' as maternal grandparents, both dead.

On Tom's fathers side, Thomas Riddle had been born an only child to ' _ Nicholas Arthur Riddle _ ' and ' _ Beatrice Olivia Howard _ ', only the grandmother was alive.

The tree lines stop extending from there,  Cepheus knows any further lines would cost extra—which was the reason why family tapestries were so heavily protected. Ancestry above all, was something to be valued in the Wizarding world.

And now for certain, Tom would fit into it.

As the tree finishing drawing itself, another set of details begin forming in neat cursive at the bottom of the parchment. Detailing the vaults and heirships Tom would be eligible to take on. The Gaunt fortune and Lord title was understandably non-existent, something  Cepheus has found out in his last life, having been sold away as the Gaunts struggled with debt. However the Lord titles for Slytherin and Peverell, as well as their vault fortunes from family members long since dead, were still around and ready to be inherited.

"If my … father is still alive—shouldn't he have inherited all this?"

Ragdas arches a brow as he responds, "Your father is a Muggle. And in the case of your mother, her brother was deemed unfit to inherit. If a Wizard is deemed unfit, regardless of being the last of the bloodline, the titles will automatically reject him. It's simply a matter of capability."

It was still strange for Cepheus regardless, how family magic seemingly recognized insanity and refused to bow to those unhinged. It would explain how the last of the Gaunts didn't have much to live on, other than what they could get their hands on. 

Tom passes the parchment to Cepheus, his brows still furrowed and  Cepheus forgets for a moment he's still dealing with little six-year-old Tom, completely unaware of the weight of his heritage.

"Do these names mean anything to you?"

He holds back a smile as he nods, "The Gaunts are part of the sacred twenty eight I told you about. You're the last sane one of them. And not to mention Slytherin … that's the name of one of the Hogwarts houses, the founder, Salazar Slytherin."

The look of pure wonder on Tom's face is entirely worth it. "What about Peverell?"

"Well—"

Ragdas coughs, drawing their attention. "If we're done here children, I will see you out to your guardians to sort out the remainder of the inheritance."

They follow along quietly,  Cepheus having passed back the parchment and Tom now cradling it as if it held his whole world. Dorea's anxiety pinched face breaks at the sight of her son appearing around the corner, but Charlus has his eyes on the rolled parchment of Tom's and his open palm is obvious without having to ask.

Cautiously, Tom hands the parchment over, and the two boys watch the shocked gasp from Dorea and Charlus's eyes widening at the revealing knowledge. 

"By  _ Merlin _ , I thought the last of the Gaunts had died out. And a Slytherin and Peverell heir? I'm almost shocked you grew up in an orphanage boy, you certainly don't deserve it."

Gnagnurt remains unimpressed the whole time, simply drawling in lackluster tones if Tom wanted to go through with the inheritance. It's readily agreed upon, encouraged by Charlus and Dorea, and the two vaults of gold and their elaborate keys fall under his claim as well as the promise of Lordships upon his coming-of-age.

Overall, Ceph thinks it's been a good day.

* * *

Tom is restless the days following, and frankly  Cepheus does relate considering the flurry of motion happening around the house. Tom is swiftly moved out of the orphanage, "adopted" by Muggle terms but simply becoming a ward under wizarding laws. Tom has an option really, a number of Pureblood Wizarding families would have been more than happy to open themselves upon Tom's reveal but he's adamant on staying with  Cepheus . Dorea and Charlus are more than happy to have him, seeing Tom as the unborn second child they could have had, and  Cepheus is just glad Tom will never grow loathed for his magic. 

Agreeing to becoming a ward meant a number of things, for starters while the two vaults of Slytherin and Peverell were under Tom's name—Charlus would be the one to hold the keys and titles until Tom turned seventeen, along with it came the estates in various stages of disrepair and once dormant Wizengamot seats were now active and temporarily under the Potter name. Cepheus knows the Wizarding world would be in a flurry with the knowledge, and the Pureblood society more than curious who the sudden heir was. But Tom admits to being scared of it all, so Dorea puts off holding a ball, just until he feels ready. 

The boys spend their days in each other's company, Tom having decided  Cepheus was the only person he’d ever consider listening to; he’s resistant towards the adults but it’s understandable considering the environment. Charlus had been more than angry when the matron had the gall to insinuate something was wrong with Tom; though Muggle tolerant, Charlus had no love for the non-magical who put off what they couldn’t fathom as implicitly evil. 

It’s only a few months in that the day comes Tom has to officially register his magical birth documentation—and he makes, for the first time, a request to Charlus.

“May I change my name?” 

Tom, ever polite, had soaked up all the Pureblood etiquette lessons Dorea had given him alongside Cepheus, transforming into the ideal Pureblood child.

“I’ll need to know what you wish to change it to.”

“Marvolo Gaunt.”

Cepheus doesn’t admit to his surprise, the Tom of his timeline held no love for his Muggle origins and had shed that skin with Lord Voldemort. In this timeline, Tom hadn’t had the chance to ponder an anagram with his name—instead given the option to change it entirely considering his revealed ancestry. ‘ _ Tom Riddle _ ’ was a remnant, a piece of his Muggle history from a father who abandoned him to an orphanage. 

Whatever Merope’s wishes had been for little Tom, many of them had died along with her when she took her last breath upon his birth.

Charlus nods, understanding, and it wouldn’t be too hard to get the name changed considering ‘Marvolo’ was still part of his name and many Wizards and Witches often took up their mother’s maiden name for whatever reason they couldn’t take their fathers. 

At age six, Tom Marvolo Riddle becomes Marvolo Gaunt in the eyes of the wizarding world.

* * *

By age seven, Marvolo has become  an accepted presence in Pureblood society.

The Blacks had been one of the first to be introduced to him, and they’d taken an interest upon the reveal of his name to be a Gaunt. In their eyes, Morfin wasn’t suited to hold anything, and by default that made Marvolo the last of the Gaunts despite Morfin’s still living status.  Cepheus’s cousins treat Marvolo much the same, like a little brother to be swaddled with affection and coos. It didn’t help little Marvolo held much the same cuteness as their  Cepheus . Dark black hair in artful curls compared to  Cepheus’s birdnest, and though not holding the same speckled jeweled gaze, those pools of warm brown could still captivate. 

Marvolo’s introduction to the Wizarding world had been a slow one, though  Cepheus thinks he has taken to it well, from being a nobody to suddenly gaining the attention of multiple families inquiring if he was  _ betrothed _ —it was a change enough to  disconcert anyone but Marvolo keeps up his face, small shy smile, the only telling sign he was nervous being the vice-like grip he’d have on Ceph’s hand.

Without fail, Cepheus remains a steady presence in Marvolo’s life, it’s what he aimed to do and he decidedly would not let him down. No doubt the Tom from his first life had tasted disappointment like a poison, it’s no wonder he ended up so warped. No, in this life Cepheus would stir Marvolo on a better path—at least one where his talents wouldn’t be wasted on Horcruxes and ideas of eradication. 

In between Marvolo always has questions for  Cepheus , he knows Marvolo had consumed at least half of the family library, and always ended up with more than one question. The boy practically inhales the knowledge of his ancestry, smiling with pride when he learns about Hogwarts and a house named after the founder he had relations to. His intrigue grows learning about the Peverell brothers and the secret Hallows, and  Cepheus admits to only spurring on that interest when he tells him the Gaunts were related to the oldest brother while the Potters had relations to the youngest. Secrets say the Hallows followed their descendants, but  Cepheus (feigning ignorance) only says he’s never seen the Potter family invisibility cloak if it even exists. 

“Some just say the brothers were very talented necromancers.”

“Really? Is that what you think Ceph?”

“I think it’s just a story.”

“Well then you’re no fun.”

* * *

At eight and nine, Marvolo has settled into his position in the Wizarding world well enough. He certainly still clings to Cepheus, Dorea and Charlus are more than a little unwilling to part them because of it. Marvolo remains distrustful of adults and highly resistant to authority figures, and to this day  Cepheus still thinks suspicions are held against his two parents that he always has to promptly stamp out.

  
He thinks he should blame himself, six years is a long time, and even then  Cepheus isn’t sure what had happened during Marvolo’s younger transformative time. Marvolo remains a little closed off to his history of the orphanage, refusing to talk about what he had experienced and always veering conversations away from the topic before he can press. 

Cepheus allows the topic change, eventually Marvolo will have to talk about it, but till then  Cepheus remains a pillar to Marvolo to lean on until he feels ready.

* * *

On Marvolo’s tenth birthday, the first party a decidedly small event with just the Potter family—Fleamont buzzes with excitement watching Marvolo unwrap the suspicious looking box he’d gifted him.

The couple had recently returned from their travels abroad, on the basis of the fact they wanted to heal over the knowledge they would give up having a child—the family already had Cepheus to continue the line, and now with Marvolo it seemed enough for them. Fleamont looks refreshed, the strained lines from before now coming more from cheerful mirth and Euphemia has a gentle glow around her. They’d been more than happy to meet the addition, and Marvolo had been ruffled in the fact he had more to consider family now with how Euphemia insistently mothered him.

“I’m telling you, Fleamont raved the whole time how Marvolo would love it. I told him it would be such a terrible idea—”

“Now now Euphy, it’s not as if the boy isn’t old enough—”

Marvolo’s shocked gasp has everyone peering over his shoulder into the box; and there, nestled in a tight bundle, scales of shimmering deep onyx with two blinking black beads stare up at Marvolo. A curious tongue flickers out, and a familiar slither of voice only two can hear listen to the speaking snake.

_ “I was put into the uncomfortable box, with a promise of meeting another snake speaker.” _

Momentarily shocked, but now grinning wide, Marvolo responds.  _ “That is true. I am Marvolo, and Cepheus here is another speaker.” _

_ “Hello, you have lovely scales.” _

The snake nods, rearing up from the box and carefully gliding over Marvolo’s arm and curling around his neck. The forked tongue flicks over his cheek, before turning to scent  Cepheus as the snake then decides on a nap around Marvolo’s shoulder.

_ “I am pleased to meet you little hatchlings, my name is Nagini.” _

“Hah! See? Entirely safe! We found this beauty with a Parseltongue on our trip in Africa, poor man was having an entire argument with her. We told him we knew two young Parseltongues and he’d been more than happy to gift her to us, apparently she makes a good protector, although he did tell us she’s fussy with food.”

Fleamont continues, clearly happy at how well the interaction went on.  Cepheus doesn’t think this was how Marvolo had met Nagini in his first life, but supposes his surviving in this timeline meant some things went changed. 

“What’s her breed?” Charlus asks, more cautious than anything. He never really quite liked the fact  Cepheus also kept his own collection of snakes running around the house.

“Black Mamba, a non-magical Muggle breed, but still highly venomous.” Fleamont nods sagely, as if he didn’t just reveal he’d given a ten-year-old a very dangerous animal to possibly become a familiar. 

“Fleamont! You told me the snake was harmless!” Euphemia shouts, now standing to swat her husband in indignation.

“Euphy dear, calm down! The boys are Parseltongues and you saw how well they interacted—”

* * *

In July of the year when they’re both supposed to turn eleven, both their letters arrive.

Marvolo buzzes with the same excitement, the years under a good home having done wonders to the first boy of  Cepheus’s memories who’d grown distrustful and spiteful. Now Marvolo glows with an assured confidence, the same air of pride now breaking through the mould into what Marvolo would eventually hone as his sharpest weapon.

“What house do you think you’ll be sorted into?” 

Marvolo poses the question as they stand in the middle of Wylda’s Wardrobe,  Cepheus had noted Madam Malkin’s had yet to open up in this timeline—but Wylda holds much the same boisterous energy of the lady he knew as Diagon’s seamstress. She titters around the two of them, needles, pins and measuring tapes following after her like a flutter of butterflies. 

“Maybe Ravenclaw?”

Truthfully he hadn’t given it much thought, certainly  Cepheus doesn’t think he’ll get sorted into Gryffindor in this lifetime—the house was loud and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep up with the energy. Hufflepuff was an option to seek some solace and peace, but he knows those seven years in Hogwarts will be key to redefining his future. That left Ravenclaws, the knowledge seekers; or Slytherins, the ambitious. 

Marvolo offers a frown, dissatisfied with his answer. “You have to join me and be sorted into Slytherin.”

Cepheus offers a wry smile, “Then why’d you ask?”

“I need you to promise me you’ll be sorted into Slytherin.”

Talk of Hogwarts had been the only thing filling their months following the letter, Dorea and Charlus having been more than happy to take their two wayward charges to Diagon for their school shopping. Charlus had left to pick up their booklist and potions equipment, leaving Dorea to make sure the boys got their assortment of robes.

“I don’t control the sorting, Mars.”

Marvolo’s face scrunches at the answer, but softens at the use of the nickname. It was something they’d picked up on when  Cepheus had complained Marvolo was a mouthful to say every time, and Marv sounded too ridiculous—Mars was just nice, it added as a second name from the Roman God of War that had very much appealed to Marvolo.

“Well, that settles it, I’ll have all your new robes delivered to you within the week.” Wylda smiles, heading over to the register as Dorea sorts out the payment. 

All that was left was the wand and perhaps a pet.

It’s the two things that Cepheus had been nervous about, he doesn’t think his Holly wand will respond the same—too much has changed and he isn’t the person he once was. He knows too, rightfully, Hedwig won’t be there; but that doesn’t stop the melancholy.

Ollivander still stands, a quaint shop with rows and rows of boxed wands in haphazard piles, the chime of the bell as they enter has another resounding crash happen somewhere in the back—all before a much younger looking Garrick Ollivander hobbles out, clearly having fallen, but still with the same wispy smile as he takes in his guests.

“Ah young Dorea Black, but it’s Dorea Potter now isn’t it? I remember you—I hope your Acacia is being treated well.”

Dorea has a grin as she replies, one of the few rare warm smiles she gives to the few people she enjoys the company of. “Of course. She’s ever loyal.” 

Ollivander nods, appeased by the response and turning a critical eye onto the two boys. “The young Mister Potter and Mister Gaunt, I have been expecting you both. Now, who will be first?”

Marvolo is eager as he takes a step forward, holding out his right hand eagerly. Ollivander offers a cursory glance over the arm before moving to the back and producing several boxes, the first he picks out is a dark Ebony wand that promptly gets snatched out of Marvolo’s hands. The cycle is admittedly funny to watch as an outsider, Marvolo’s face turning through various emotions at the incredulity at the way the man worked; eventually however, they finally settle on a familiar bone white of the yew—and once Marvolo’s fingers curl around her handle, the magic in him practically  _ swells _ . 

Ollivander is pleased. “Yew. Phoenix feather. Thirteen and a half inches. A very powerful wand has chosen you Mister Gaunt, take pride and treat her well.” 

Marvolo preens at the knowledge, seemingly unwilling to part with his new partner but gently lays the wand into the cushioned box. Hugging the item like it was his new lifeline, and in a way  Cepheus does relate to the feeling.

“And now you Mister Potter, come along.”

Cepheus has to swallow the nervousness as he steps up, and it’s the same routine as before but Ollivander pauses. Giving Cepheus a careful glance before his eyes glaze and he wanders away;  Cepheus has to struggle not to shake when the wandmaker returns with the box, one he’d never forget, and the same familiar holly of his old wand nestled in the cushion. Ollivander picks her up, his partner, an old friend who’d served loyally by his side to his end of days—he curls his fingers around her familiar grip, and for a while everything is still as Cepheus thinks she might accept him, but in that same moment the wand surges and breaks in his hands. 

Snapping clean into two, the hair the phoenix feather glinting in the light.

Ollivander doesn’t look shocked, but a frown does appear, the man holds the same air of mystery as he says the next words. 

“Many things have changed, haven’t they Mister Potter?”

Marvolo and Dorea don’t say anything, but she clearly looks concerned and Marvolo looks curious. They don’t question the wandmaker however, simply watch as the man sighs and puts the broken wand back into the box.

“Well no matter, she decided she would not be chosen by anyone anymore. And who am I to force an owner? We will try again.”

Cepheus has to hold back the emotion crawling up the back of his throat, forlornly he watches what had been his partner carefully placed in what he saw as a casket for her body. It’s her show of loyalty that has him choking back a sob, now knowing for certain if Harry Potter were to be born in this timeline that she wouldn’t have chosen  _ that _ boy.

She had chosen to be his, in his last life and this.

Eventually Ollivander finds another, this one sleek in soft brown with a darker handle that curved elegantly around the base, he grips it and his magic  _ sings _ with agreement as gold sparkles glitter from the end. Ollivander nods, satisfied with the show. “Cherry. Dragon heartstring. Thirteen inches. You have a partner who demands strength of mind Mister Potter, and you must have certainly showed her. The total will be fourteen Galleons.”

* * *

Eeylops Owl Emporium is also a familiar sight, but the shopkeeper is a chipper girl who’s more than eager to help two first years pick what they need. Marvolo already had Nagini (and they’d both agreed they were going to sneak her in whatever the rules were), and all that was left was a companion for Cepheus. Briefly, he considered getting a snake with Marvolo, but he doubts Nagini would take well to sharing what she deemed  _ her _ hatchlings.  Cepheus isn’t sure he’s fond of cats or toads either, so that left owls.

An owl.

Various eyes and hooting follow them as they wander into the shop; Isobel, as she introduces herself, rattles on about the different owls they had and their temperaments. Marvolo had stopped earlier on to bother a ruffled looking barn owl, but Isobel continues to lead Cepheus on asking various questions about what kind of owl he was looking for.

“I just need one to deliver letters who’s good with finding their way, I’m not picky about attitude.”

She turns considering at this. “Well, all the owls here are good mind you—but there’s one guy in the back who’s better than all the rest, the only issue being he has a bit of a personality.” She turns sheepish, but when  Cepheus doesn’t show any indication of disagreeing she happily leads him towards the darker area of the shop. 

In a corner with a fairly large cage sits what Cepheus sees as quite possibly the most regal looking owl he’s seen, taut body and glimmering eyes like pools of gold assessing him as soon as  Cepheus comes into view. 

“This is Artemis, he’s male though, slightly older than everyone here and quite pecky. Eurasian eagle-owl. Nearly bit my fingers off when I gave him the wrong food last time!” She laughs, lightheartedly. “Want to say hi?” 

Cepheus nods, watching as she gently unlatches the cage and offer her arm for the bird. He seems miffed by the action but does so, gently being taken out from the cage and brought to  Cepheus who brings up a crooked finger to run along the soft tawny feathers dotted with darker spots. Artemis consents to the action before decided to hope off the handlers offered arm onto  Cepheus’s shoulder, digging rather harsh talons in but otherwise looking quite pleased with itself.

“Well! Imagine that, I think he likes you.”

Cepheus walks out with a new companion hooting in his cage.


	4. the first day or the days to come?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> betad, big thanks to maggie, bella and my darling wife liz ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> i haven't abandoned this fic! but please take note there's gonna be a slight pause as i work on another tomarry ganymede au (yes, can u tell i have a greek thing rly going on?) piece โ๏∀๏ใ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resolution.

September arrives with a buzz of excitement. Marvolo has a careful look of awe at the Hogwarts Express—charmed a deep ebony black, so different in his time to the bright gaudy red Cepheus had been used to seeing. Families in their throngs all carefully packing away trunks, kids giving tearful goodbyes and even Dorea doesn’t resist pulling the two of them in for a bone-crushing hug each. Charlus leaves them with a fond ruffle over the head, and a soft chide to behave themselves.

“Getting into trouble is all fine and well for young boys, just make sure the Headmaster doesn’t Floo us—”

“Charlus.”

“What? They’re growing boys! Oh fine—the Headmaster may Floo us  _ once _ about your bad behavior—”

“ _ Charlus _ !”

Marvolo tugs him away and into the train after giving a final wave at the two bickering adults, both of them having managed to find an empty compartment to slide into. Almost soundlessly, Marvolo whispers a locking charm onto the door—only audible with a faint click that Cepheus returns with an exaggerated roll of eyes. Marvolo had made it clear more than once he wasn’t going to be inclined to interact with anyone, especially if they couldn’t manage a simple counter charm. At least it will leave them in peace, to talk or read as they want.

They’d arrived a little earlier, the bustle of children boarding the train still audible even as Marvolo snickers, watching confused first years try to pry the door open only for them to realize it’s locked. It’s a deterrent that mostly works, the older years more interested in sitting with their friends. That left the first years, who either had no clue about magic or no idea how to cast a counter charm.

“You’re very childish, you know.” From the book he’d brought along for the trip, Cepheus speaks up, eyebrow arching at the other boy.

“We’re eleven Ceph, of course I’m childish.”

The rush of activity slows outside, and when the train horns and begins to move only then is there another sound of the compartment door being jostled that the two turn to watch the newcomer. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing Cepheus notices. The boy, appearing a bit older than them, looks at the door in confusion. He takes out his wand, flicking it and mouthing a spell; the door unlatches. Marvolo gives an audible click of his tongue in annoyance.

The new boy entered their compartment. “Who cast a locking charm on the door?”

Cepheus responds with a noncommittal shrug, Marvolo only offering a look before turning his attention to the window as if he wasn’t already preening with the urge to boast. The blonde looks ruffled by the response, huffing before speaking again.

“Abraxas Chiron Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy name.” 

Clearly fishing for a response, Wizarding families all knew the Malfoys and their name alone would have been enough to set some into a panic. 

Cepheus puts his book down, folding hands atop the title and allowing his heir ring to glint under the streaming sunlight. It’s a small move but entirely calculated as he smiles, “Cepheus Charlus Potter, heir to the Potter name.” 

He gives a cursory glance to Marvolo, a silent prompting that the brunette takes with a disgruntled huff. “Marvolo Gaunt, ward of the Potters.”

Abraxas clearly doesn’t expect to be met with those names. His lips twitch to a frown but he quickly recovers, offering a genial smile and moving into the compartment—seating himself next to Cepheus with sharp eyes still on the heavy ring on his finger, it’s onyx jewel carved with the glinting crest of the family; smaller than the Lord ring but still heavy in title.

It was decided just before he left for Hogwarts, the remainder of what made up the small Potter family gathered with Fleamont quietly telling Cepheus he and Euphemia had decided that the heirship should go to Cepheus—officially now. Truth be told Cepheus hadn’t wanted it. He guesses it won’t be long for James to be conceived but hadn’t been able to find the voice in himself to tell the resigned couple otherwise. He takes the heir ring with as much grace as he could manage, and while Marvolo had congratulated him, Cepheus only sees the looming title as a burden.

“I apologize. Your family stopped receiving our Gala invites for years now we’d begun to think something had happened. Please, call me Abraxas. Slytherin, third year.” Abraxas cants his head in slight nod towards Cepheus.

“Accepted. Obviously we’re first years, unsorted.”

“Any idea which house you’ll be sorted into?” Abraxas casts a glance over the two of them.

“Slytherin.” Marvolo replies, without any shred of hesitation. All Gaunts had been Slytherin, and Marvolo has already shown signs of his budding ambition.

“I’m not sure.” Cepheus manages as truthfully as he can, even when Marvolo gives him a withering glare that Abraxas catches onto. “Although Marvolo insists I get sorted into Slytherin with him.”

“Well I’m sure our house would benefit greatly with the addition of two ancient bloodlines.” Abraxas turns an appraising glint in his eyes towards Marvolo as he says the next words. “Especially considering the heir will be joining us. A word of advice however—the house of snakes won’t be like the other houses, we have a long standing tradition of … house politics.”

“Oh don’t worry, mother had warned us.”

“Ah, your mother is a Black is she not? Dorea Black. The Black family heir—Orion—is in my year and—” A sudden look of understanding crosses his face. “—so you’re the ‘cute baby cousin’ he hasn’t stopped crying about for two years.”

Cepheus has to bite back the frown and flush threatening to redden his face. Marvolo looks about on the edge of bursting into laughter; the traitor.

“Don’t look so terribly shy, we’re all family one way or another and if it’s any consolation I’m just as embarrassed by him.” Abraxas waves it off with a genial grin, charming and entirely different from the haughty Pureblood he’d tried to act before. They fall into comfortable conversation, Abraxas having decided to sit away from his friends because of how insufferable they were acting and rather cordially answering all of Marvolo’s questions about what Hogwarts (most especially the families in Slytherin) and what to expect. 

“Lestrange should be entering your year, Avery, Nott and the younger Rosier brother too. Druella is in mine and she’s an absolute bore, but their family owns the largest collection of Goblin gems so we can’t say much.”

“You’re being …” Marvolo starts, a suspicious frown on his face. “... awfully nice about telling us all this.”

Abraxas, true to unflinching Pureblood form, only smiles. “Like I said, we’re all family here. And family … we take care of one another, right?”

The subtle message was clear. 

_ I’m staking an early claim on the heirs of ancient and nearly extinct bloodlines. _

Any other time and perhaps Marvolo would have fumed, but they’re only first years with name and blood to back them up. Abraxas had a two year head start to build his connections, was to be the head of his house and was offering them a free olive branch.

Cepheus is only blithely worried at the grin Marvolo returns, clearly forced and more teeth than actual smile. The older part of him wonders if that was the reason why he’d bullied the Malfoys in his first life as much as he did, Abraxas was certainly more affable than his descendants, but he probably managed to incur Marvolo’s ire enough that it stayed permanent.

The trolley witch cuts their conversation short.

They spend the rest of the ride unbothered by anyone else, a couple of yearmates of Abraxas having stopped to chat but ushered away as soon as Abraxas made it clear he wasn’t going to introduce the two mysterious boys he decided to sit with. Abraxas doesn’t bother with the visitors names either, mostly brushing them off to smaller families who’d be insignificant otherwise. It’s entirely pretentious, but an attitude they’re used to, considering their mother and guardian was Dorea.

(Dorea who had the terrible habit of blatantly dismissing people she saw as lesser blood. Nevermind the wrath she always incurred being anywhere public, but at least the two boys knew what typical Pureblood treatment looked like.) 

Night falls on the outside of the train, darkening the sky as the rustle outside becomes a little more audible. “We’ll be reaching Hogwarts soon, I’ll be returning to my compartment to change. First years will be ushered in by the grounds keeper and later the assistant headmaster.” With a sly wink and final well wish be sorted into Slytherin, Abraxas slinks out.

“Well ... at least he was nice, wouldn’t you say?”

Marvolo’s glare is prickling fire. “You know what? Maybe you should be a Puff.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“Circe, you are  _ infuriating _ .”

* * *

The groundskeeper is a much thinner man than Hagrid was. Where Hagrid from Cepheus’ memories had a booming voice and towering stature, Gaius Bane is more coaxing, with a lanky figure reminding Cepheus of a walking Muggle streetlight. His smile illuminated under the glow of the lamp is cheerful and genuine, guiding the shy and nervous first years on the memorable introduction to the first sight of Hogwarts. 

“No more than five to a boat now—be seated children—yes that’s all and well. Everyone in? Good. Forward—!”

The rickety boats are much the same, each boat creaking but not showing give under the weight of four or five small children. Marvolo is completely entranced by the sight of the castle ahead, and Cepheus has to give a little pull to make sure he doesn’t fall. Their three boat companions, two girls and another boy are equally quiet—drinking in the magical sight Hogwarts gifted her newcomers with a shimmering pride over the glimmer of the lake. 

They reach the other side without much fanfare, each student climbing out of the boats, the more curious watching them recede under the water before turning to face the lone figure that awaited them. For just for a brief moment, Cepheus allows himself to pause.

Dumbledore.

Younger, no lines worn from years of stress carving his face. Youthful and in the prime of his life, this was the man who had the scars from his past, but could still hold himself like a fire. This wasn’t the man who didn’t drop off an orphaned baby at the door of abusive relatives, nor was he the man who held a deep, grudging suspicion against an unnamed, orphaned boy who could speak Parseltongue. He was just a Professor, an assistant headmaster who would dutifully take care of each student just as his job required.

“Welcome! I hope you all enjoyed that little trip—it’s something special only done for first years, just as special as your coming sorting will be. When I call your name, just quietly walk up to the stool. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I know how mischievous our older years are about spinning tales of what the sorting will entail. I promise you, there will be no Troll or Hippogriff battles.”

Glimmering blue eyes twinkle in their mirth, before giving a pointed stare at a boy in the back who hides the grin on his face. Dumbledore then glances at each face carefully, attention falling onto Cepheus and Marvolo—only to pass and give the same glance to their neighbours.

“Now remember, your houses will be your family, but Hogwarts is still one united school. Every single witch and wizard here will be your brothers and sisters with whom you’ll share the halls with, you’ll do well to take care of each other. Now… Welcome to Hogwarts.”

The doors to the great hall choose that moment to burst open, wide and gaping to the awe-struck faces of the older years. Dumbledore makes long strides to pick up the parchment on the stool, clearing his throat to begin the sorting.

“ _ Aallard, Basil! _ ” 

It’s comforting to watch the familiar process, the wide hat engulfing the heads of the first years, nearly swallowing half of a child’s face before the ripped seams would cry a house and polite clapping would follow. They go through the students, a good number this year having ended up in Hufflepuff, until Marvolo’s name is called.

“ _ Gaunt, Marvolo! _ ”

Marvolo squeezes Cepheus’ hand, a petulant little reminder that he expected the raven to join him in Slytherin—and true to form it doesn’t take the hat a second before the snake house is called. A number of the Purebloods look at Marvolo appraisingly, especially due to the significance of his family name. Finally, it’s his turn.

“ _ Potter, Cepheus! _ ”

His steps are measured as he walks to the stool, smiling up at younger Dumbledore who returns the genial grin. The plunging darkness of the hat is reminiscent to his first life, and almost immediate the hat launches into tittering conversation. “My, my—what a curious brain indeed! Not quite one, not quite the other; entirely whole still the same. Gryffindor was the last eh? Yes I can see that, certainly brave, loyal too and terribly intelligent—but this life, this life you’re a little different aren’t you Cepheus? Yes—you don’t deny it. You’ll do well in— _ SLYTHERIN _ !”

Marvolo’s face is anything if not smug, patting the empty space next to him that’s smacked in the middle of the third year Slytherins. Orion is a familiar face, waving at Cepheus like an over-excited puppy with Lucretia giving an elegant cant of her head—smile on her face betraying her fondness.

As Dippet gives final notes of welcoming, the feast begins and almost immediately is Cepheus met with Abraxas’ cheery voice directed at them. “It’s nice to see the two of you in Slytherin, Merlin only knows what we’d do if you ended up somewhere else. Potter here has his fawning cousin to worry about.” 

Orion gives an angry nudge, scowling at the blonde. “Oh yeah, like  _ you _ didn’t just spent thirty minutes telling me just how impossibly  _ green _ his eyes are.” 

Cepheus flushes under the attention, feeling Marvolo tug him closer. Walburga thankfully chooses the moment to come to his rescue, artfully swatting Orion. “Stop teasing our cousin, look how terribly red you’ve made him now!”

“Oh I didn’t mean anything by it, you forgive me right Ceph?”

Under dark lashes Cepheus glances up, coy, before turning haughtily away and burying his face into Marvolo’s shoulder. The table it a riot of laughter, so much different to the uptight environment that had been his first life. This Slytherin is much more relaxed, away from the expectations of parents these children—for however brief the moment—could be just that, children.

* * *

The Slytherin dorm is interesting in its own right. The Prefect leading them— Diana Rowle—is cheery as she details how their house worked.

“While in the other houses like Gryffindor you share dorms up until your final year—in Slytherin we only make it mandatory up to year four for you to get to know each other. Fifth years get their own rooms, but you little hatchlings have four more years before you get that privilege.” She winks at them, showing off perfect teeth and leading the troop of first years like little ducks.

“Okay boys, go off down that hallway. Pick whatever room you want, it’s six to a room. Your trunk and belongings will be at the foot of any bed you decide on. Remember, it’ll be your bed for the next four years so be careful who you decide to sleep next to.” It’s said a little more seriously than necessary, but Cepheus can understand the pain it would be to sleep next to someone who couldn’t perform a silencing charm  _ and _ just so happened to snore loudly.

“Oh—and once you’re settled, lights out is at nine sharp!”

Predictably Marvolo tugs him to the corner of the room, promptly pushing Cepheus to take the furthermost bed nearing the wall, his own bed just beside—four other boys come in, sparing a glance at them before choosing their own beds before beginning to unpack. Cepheus hardly bothers, toeing off his shoes and socks to enjoy the feel of the plush carpet and laying back onto the fluffy covers. Marvolo casts a somewhat disapproving look.

“You should try to at least open your trunk.”

“A problem for the future me.” He gives a halfhearted wave, closing eyes just to listen to Marvolo’s irate sigh. He tells himself he’ll only doze for a moment, but sleep comes with its warm embrace and promise of blissful rest.

* * *

The very first day of Hogwarts is set aside as a free day for the first years, to wander and explore the halls they’d soon spend their days studying and learning in. Older years had a duty to help guide them if they wanted to get anywhere specific, and it was also the only day first years were allowed to sit in older years classrooms provided they kept quiet and didn’t participate.

It’s different to what Cepheus remembers from his first life. He guesses the tradition had changed between the years, but doesn’t deny that he enjoys the brief freedom to wander Hogwarts in daylight. 

Marvolo takes the predictable lead in the morning, after being introduced to their roommates—Lestrange, Avery, Nott and Rosier—dragging Cepheus to breakfast, before taking his hand and then proceeding to run straight after the Head Boy, declaring they’ll both be following him for their first day as first years. Graham Seymour, a seventh year Muggleborn Ravenclaw, is mostly amused but doesn’t say anything against it, politely answering Marvolo’s questions and being endlessly patient when having to explain why he had two Slytherins tottering after him. 

Graham has a full schedule, having seven N.E.W.T. classes in addition to helping manage the Quidditch team along with his duties as Head Boy.

“How do you manage?” Eventually Marvolo asks.

“Pardon?”

“How do you manage everything so well? Normal people get tired.” 

Here Graham gives the two of them a wry, enigmatic smile. “Well, normalcy will never achieve greatness, will it?” He winks at them cheekily, guiding them to the dungeons for the last potions class of the day. “Besides, if you’re aiming for the Minister’s office after graduation like I am, there are things you have to do.”

Suddenly, Cepheus knows exactly who Marvolo had taken up as a role model in his first life.

The N.E.W.T. potions class is made up of only seven students—understandable considering the O.W.L.s score of Exceeds Expectations was necessary to even set foot in the classroom. The professor is a beaming man, ushering the students in and tittering happily when he sees the Head Boy with two, clearly new, faces. 

“Graham! My favourite student! I was told two inquisitive boys took to shadowing you for the day?”

Graham’s smile is scarily charming. “Indeed Professor Slughorn. Marvolo Gaunt and Cepheus Potter, two new Slytherins.” 

Slughorn’s eyes light up at the names. “A Gaunt and a Potter! How rare! I must say the both of you did well choosing to shadow Graham. He’s the best student I’ve had, talented and hardworking. Admirable qualities in a Head Boy. You’d both do well to succeed the same, yes?”

Marvolo, ever the talented copycat, follows the smile Graham had flashed. Cepheus follows after, only a tad more bashful. “Of course professor.” 

“Good! Good! Now, off to your seats, I don’t mind the little ones sitting up front along with you Graham.”

“Thank you sir.”

They take the unoccupied table right at the front, facing the bubbling cauldron as Slughorn begins the lesson. “I’m glad to see all returning faces, as well as two new ones—” Here he casts a wink at Cepheus and Marvolo. “—I’ll remind you again for your N.E.W.T.s, you’ll be expected to cast wandlessly during your exams, so from now on I don’t want to see a peek of your wands!” His voice is jovial even if it does earn groans from at least two students. Graham hardly looks fazed. 

“Today we’ll go right to what you’ll be expected to brew for your coursework—can anyone take a guess to what I have brewing right now?”

Expectedly, seven hands shoot up. Slughorn is pleased. “Yes, yes all of you know—Felix Felicis. One of the hardest potions to brew and exactly why it’s a topical favourite for seventh years. Typically it takes at least six months to brew, but all of you will only be given five. Anyone can tell me why? Graham?”

“Six months is the average time it takes. We’re all expected to do better.”

“Yes, yes—quite right. Hogwarts has a reputation to maintain you know! But yes, the first month we’ll give you ample time to prepare—then the following five will be dedicated solely to brewing and afterwards you’ll be given time to write your essay. Any questions? No? Well feel free to get started. Remember, Felix Felicis might be the hardest to work with, but the only exact thing about this brew are its ingredients. Otherwise? You’re allowed to get as creative as you can be to get the most effective brewing period.”

The class is mostly spent as a silent period; Graham absorbed in his books, quill working to jot clean notes and entirely forgetting the two. While Slughorn is attentive to his class, but he also spends a good portion entertaining Cepheus and Marvolo with questions about them. 

“Well I certainly wouldn’t mind you boys in my class, I’ll be your Head of House after all—any subjects you boys interested in so far?”

“Runes.” Marvolo replies easily.

“Runes! Yes, terribly useful that subject is. You’d study wards then too, and they cover a nice portion of the wards in Hogwarts. And you Mister Potter?”

Rather shyly, Cepheus looks up from under dark lashes. “I’m really enjoying Potions, Professor.”

Slughorn practically glows under the words, smile getting wider before he’s outright grinning. “Oh, this is nothing my boy! You should be here for when we do the actual brewing—mind you, the planning part is just as important, but if I do say, even brewing requires a natural flair not many have—oh dear, look at that! It’s already dinnertime! Come now, off you go; can’t have Headmaster Dippet chastising me for keeping students in again.”

* * *

  
  


“You never told me you liked potions.” Marvolo would accuse him later, a slight frown on face. 

He only gives a sly smile, “Don’t be angry, I could’ve been telling the truth—or I just want Professor Slughorn to like me better than you.”

“Oh, now you’re never going to tell me!”

Cepheus returns the accusation with peals of laughter. 

* * *

Their first day winds to a slow end, Graham having ruffled both their heads rather affectionately, ushering them to their seats at the Slytherin table. Marvolo clearly found a mentor in the older student, someone to look up to and aspire to be. While Graham was a Muggleborn, he excelled in his classes, and not a single Professor had anything bad to say about him. 

“Yes, but he’s a  _ Ravenclaw _ .” Abraxas drawls, earning a couple of nods from the others.

Marvolo, while entirely aware of the stigma against Slytherin, doesn’t seem to fully understand it, scrunches his face. “Does it matter? It’s ability that counts doesn’t it?”

“Slytherin is a notorious house for seeding and budding Dark Lords, it’s why Professor Dumbledore is so stingy with point giving when it comes to Slytherins, even if he’s known as the most lenient Professor.” Lucretia adds with an angry hiss. 

Marvolo becomes quiet throughout the dinner, head tilted in contemplative silence. The others don’t bother him after that, instead turning their rabid attention onto Cepheus who entertains their questions as best as he can—but they slip away as soon as the dinner finishes. When their dishes are banished, Marvolo slips his fingers into Cepheus’ and tugs him away.

Under the warm covers of his bed in the dormitory, Cepheus isn’t surprised when he feels the chill and eventual dip of the mattress as another body joins his. Slipping under the charmed duvet and snuggling closer, Marvolo nudges their bodies close; a familiar act, one they’ve done since they were children, and Cepheus doesn’t fight the movement. He feels Marvolo’s warm breath along his ear, and the other boy whispers the next few words in a fervent determination that has Cepheus smiling.

“I’m going to be Head Boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter and commission me there yeehaw [@therealconnor60](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)
> 
> alternatively, [join my discord writing group](https://discord.gg/hWPPBTZ) to scream @ me and read some previews of chapters before they're released


End file.
